Here are a few poems by Harold Norse, a wonderful poet I met a couple times in the 80s. His excelent autobiography is "Memoirs of a Bastard Angel" (Murrow). I recommend it.
for Gerald Malanga someone very familiar tho' we've never met fumbles around with his tool shed while I crouch beside him I request machine oil for my squeaky bicycle he hands me the oilcan I notice his black velvet pants with a flower design our pants are identical I reach up to tell him with my hand that caresses the soft material under which the hard teenage thigh grows more familiar my hand explores his calf the muscular buttocks and something swelling in front my mother calls Lunch Is Ready he may be the brother I've wanted we chat like blood relations comfortable with each other my mother rides a snow sleigh into the kitchen she is having her problems we laugh at her worries we share an inner knowledge he responds to my touch with no visible emotion I am growing upset I reach for his penis I hold it like an electric eel electrons come in my hand he seems to melt into the snow and sound of sleigh bells this has been happening a long time San Francisco, ca. 1972, from "The Love Poems, 1940-1985"
(excerpt from a Paris journal, 1961 Masturbate wildly. 3 a.m. A knock. Throw open the door, naked. Arab I used to know. No place to stay. Crash here? OK. Shows me his boat ticket. "I return to Tunis in a week." Removes his shoes & socks, revealing huge dirty feet, swollen from tramping. Asks for scissors, slowly cuts all his fingernails, then toenails. Removes his gray houndstooth suit. His shorts are dirty. Climbs into bed, mutters, "Je suis trés fatigué." Loud snores. Next morning, without a word, he dresses & laying a cold hand briefly on my arm leaves. Masturbate wildly. from "Carnivorous Saint"
I'm not a man. I can't earn a living, buy new things for my family. I have acne and a small peter. I'm not a man. I don't like football, boxing and cars. I like to express my feelings. I even like to put an arm around my friend's shoulder. I'm not a man. I won't play the role assigned to me --the role created by Madison Avenue, Playboy, Hollywood and Oliver Cromwell. Television does not dictate my behavious. I am only 5 foot 4. I'm not a man. Once when I shot a squirrel I swore that I would never kill again. I gave up meat. The sight of blood makes me sick. I like flowers. I'm not a man. I went to prison resisting the draft. I do not fight when real men beat me up and call me queer. I dislike violence. I'm not a man. I have never raped a woman. I don't hate blacks. I do not get emotional when the flag is waved. I do not think I should love America or leave it. I think I should laugh at it. I'm not a man. I have never had the clap. I'm not a man. Playboy is not my favorite magazine. I'm not a man. I cry when I'm unhappy. I'm not a man. I do not feel superior to women. I'm not a man. I don't wear a jockstrap. I'm not a man. I write poetry. I'm not a man. I meditate on peace and love. I'm not a man. I don't want to destroy you. San Francisco, 1972